A Parting Blow
by Wraithlike
Summary: One arrow was all it took to end her life. And neither regret, prayer nor tears can restore that which is lost. Legolas's thoughts on a mortal girl's death at his hands. Set just before the War of the Ring. AU. No romance.


**Notes to be dispensed below. Onwards!**

A Parting Blow

oOo

Legolas didn't think. He just shot.

The calloused fingers recalled themselves without encouragement to his bow, and the arrow had flown, whistling like a young bird from the string too fast to predict, and, like a thousand times before, the arrow found it's mark.

It was dark. A dark, secluded path that few dared to cross, except those bent on wrong-doing or secret business, and in these dark days, such secrets always boded ill. The Mirkwoods prince had roamed such paths long enough to know that taking chances was a foolish idea. No one would willingly wander such trails alone unless bent on ill deeds. So, he shot to save his own life and to ensure his own safety.

His shot was true, and with his elven hearing, he picked out the quiet gasp and thump as his prey fell to the ground neatly. Legolas froze for a moment, but there was no further motion. A sly seeping sensation of foreboding began to well into his stomach, as he slid forth another arrow to his fingers, and proceeded cautiously to examine the corpse of his fallen enemy.

The dark, leaf-strewn paths afforded little comfort to him, but at this moment, even less as to the limp body he drew close. His logical mind knew he had done what was expected or safe, but the part of his mind that was prone to folly itched. He was suddenly impatient, and ran forwards, only to skid to a halt and drop to his knees weakly.

A folded corpse lay sprawled across the path, the corpse of a young, mortal girl.

Her long dark hair was wavy and tangled, obscuring her face. Her pale hands protruded from her dark sleeves, and she was swathed in a tunic and cloak, obviously a man's. The arrow shaft jutted grotesquely from her back, obviously having snared her straight through the heart. Legolas reached out, his hands shaking, as if to turn her over, though he didn't know why, but hesitated. He didn't want to touch her and make this whole situation real. He didn't want to feel the coarse material of her cloak damp from the forest, or the straw-like texture of the snarled hair over her shoulder, or feel the warmth from her newly deceased body. He didn't want guilt to knock him out.

_Coward._

He reached over, and turned her as gently as if she had been his own sister.

Her face was pale, and tear-stained. Her blue eyes were wide and staring, and already, the colour was fading from her lips. She could be not have reached her majority, even for a mortal. Legolas could never judge human ages, but this, he could tell.

Her scratched bow had slipped out of her hands as she had fallen, and now lay in the middle of the path, the scarred wood gleaming malevolently at him. He gazed at it for a moment, before looking around. There was no-one in sight, or hearing, and he could sense that nothing but creatures roamed for a good distance. This girl had been alone, and obviously previously injured, if the bandages swathed over her shoulders and arms were anything to go by. She had likely suffered greatly, even before his arrow had ended her life.

The stagnant wind moved through the trees at that moment, making them sound like disapproving gossips, and shifting the hair on the human's face to display her ears to Legolas. They were, unremarkably enough, rounded, but a gold hoop was pierced through the lobe, and suddenly, Legolas understood. This girl must be one of those wandering folk who roamed the countryside. His own father had little patience towards them when they begged reprieve in his lands. Sometimes, they travelled in groups with their carts and horses, and told stories around fires, and sang songs and lays. They never stayed in the one place for long, and a motley crew they were. Unwanted, abandoned, whatever your place or situation, you would fit in with those. This girl was likely no different. It would explain her lack of companions.

They wore the gold hoop to pay their way in case they were killed when caught off guard. It was supposed to be enough for a decent burial, but it was more of a tradition than anything else. Most corpses like this were merely pillaged and left to lie in the roads.

Perhaps she had been bent on wrong-doing. Perhaps that was why she was now one of their number. Perhaps she had never done anything but adhere to the laws of the land. Perhaps she was a child of their folk. Anything was possible.

And yet, there she lay, dead on the ground before him, and Legolas, fair regent of the woods, had killed her.

Legolas was no stranger to death, even being, as he was, a pure Firstborn. He had killed Orcs on patrol. He had killed giant spiders. He had even killed other mortals before. Death was not something that fazed him. It was unusual in his life. He had to be able to defend himself, his people, and his woods. His home. He was a warrior, and warriors were attuned to death.

But this was no warrior before him. This was just an unknown mortal child, alone in the woods. She would likely not have attacked him, but here she was, the victim of his hand. Legolas knew his train of thought made little sense, and knew especially that his father did not take lightly to his coddling of mortals. He was not an elf known for his good-will towards humans, and would have showed little mercy to any walking his realms without his permission. Legolas knew that, had any other elf stumbled upon her, Thranduil's retribution would have been far less clean than his own.

It didn't ease the irrational guilt Legolas felt. He was annoyed with himself. He had killed in battle many, many times, too many, in fact. He should be desensitized to death at this stage. Curse his foolish conscience.

Legolas stood, wiping his hands on his breeches, and stared at the unmoving form in front of him. What to do, what to do …

Legolas knew what he should do. Gently, carefully as if she was one of his own, Legolas lifted her and placed her on the side of the path.

oOo

Half an hour later, Legolas was patting the earth on her makeshift grave, his guilt still gnawing illogically at him. He knelt by it, for a moment, thinking sombre thoughts, and ran a hand tenderly over the mound.

_I'm sorry, _he thought, and knew that didn't begin to cover it. He was aware that had she been found by anyone else, she still would have died, so far trespassing into elven realms was she, but there was always the slim chance that she might have escaped detection, and continued on her way. She still probably would have died of her own extensive injuries, but it wouldn't have been he that was now patting closed her earthen grave. She was young; any young one may have made her mistakes. Legolas knew the guilt would stay with him for a very long time, no matter what.

He bowed his head over the mound, and began singing a soft lament for the child within, a song of seasons and years, and how life and death ruled the relentless tide of the ages. He refused to allow tears to flow, as he stood, the same foolish remorse eating away at him. He looked down the path, far into the dark distance, towards Rivendell, where he was headed to counsel with Elrond, half-elven lord, and sighed. Dark times lay ahead, and he cursed them for causing the suspicion that had led to this young one's death at his hands.

Without another glance at the grave, Legolas Thranduilion, son of the king picked up his bow, fastened it in place, and began anew his journey to different lands, taking with him a sorrow and perspective that changed his outlook on life for a long time afterwards.

oOo

It was peace-time when Legolas happened upon that path again. Middle Earth was finally undisturbed, and he could smile again, at last. The images of death and pain, though never to be forgotten, had dimmed, at least.

A sparkle of white caught his eye on the hedgerow. He turned to stare at the place where a child of mortals would sleep forevermore, and found it within himself not to turn away. He crouched down next to it, and sighed. It was quiet and peaceful there. The dark, frightening ways had brightened, leaving a silent, pensive land where he could walk undisturbed. Things had indeed changed, and though it had been a long time since he had remembered the mortal girl who had died on this road, suddenly, he could see her face as clearly as ever. He hoped she was happy, wherever her spirit now dwelled.

He trailed a hand across the green mound, and, without being consciously aware, a sad smile flickered onto his face.

Blooming proudly on her simple grave was a cluster of pure white roses.

xXx

**A/N: Well, there you go. I'm fair spewing the literature out today. Well, hope you like it. God, my work is terrible dark, isn't it? I'm not really sure about this one, to be honest. I'm finding a lot of half-written fictions these day and just finishing them. Which is completely against my nature, but there you go. I hope you like it. So, review if you do. Or don't. You know, whatever floats your boat. Just don't lecture me on how there were no wandering people about the place, except for Rangers ... I made it up. Sorry. Sue me. But don't, because I love you. Really, I do. Review? -grins angelically-**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings. Tolkien does. Nor do I own Legolas, though if he is ever captured by his hoards of fan-girls, I will gladly take some then. ;)**


End file.
